It's a Heartache
by rslhilson
Summary: Written for the Sick!Wilson Heart Challenge: Wilson has a heart attack on Valentine's Day, and House gets him talking. Oneshot; slash goggles optional.


_It's a Heartache_

**Sick!Wilson's "We *Heart* Wilson Challenge" Prompt: **Use the word "heart" as your theme; have someone provide a little TLC and make Wilson feel special, loved, appreciated, etc.

**Author's Note: **The story includes spoilers through "Family Practice," and while it's technically H/W friendship, feel free to wear slash goggles :) I tried to be fair to Cuddy in this one, but Huddy fans may want to stay away. The title is taken from the Trick Pony song.

* * *

_It's a heartache  
__Nothing but a heartache  
__Hits you when it's too late  
__Hits you when you're down  
_- Trick Pony, "It's a Heartache"

_Wilson? You paged?_

Consciousness flowed slowly but gently back to Wilson, his senses gradually returning as he felt himself awaken.

_Holy shit…Need some help in here!_

He seemed to be aware of his toes first, wiggling them as if to assure himself that they were still there. His legs and torso came next, followed by an uncomfortable ache in his chest and the odd feeling of wires snaking across his skin.

_Come on, Wilson, stay with me. Somebody page House _now!

As his arms came to life he found himself grasping weakly at the darkness, perhaps hoping for human contact but coming up only with fistfuls of sheets. At last, he forced his eyes to flutter open as he felt his head drifting back to his body, only vaguely surprised at the image – and word – that greeted him.

"Moron."

His subsequent wince was in reaction to more than just his physical discomfort, but when his attempt to ask House what had happened resulted only in a hoarse mumble, he felt the head of the bed being raised as a straw was forced into his mouth.

"I knew all that caring was going to kill you one day. A heart attack at 41…Jesus Christ."

Wilson stopped drinking in alarm, his throat ironically gone dry again. "What?" he croaked.

House rolled his eyes. "Relax; you're fine. Like I always say, if you're going to have a heart attack, it may as well be in a hospital." As he returned the cup to the nightstand and eased himself into the visitor's chair beside the bed, he continued, "Of course you decided to have one on _Valentine's _day. I know the harpy broke your sad, pathetic, too-big-for-own-good heart, but do you have to be so freakin' literal all the time?"

Wilson shifted in the bed and tried to get comfortable, glaring at House when the diagnostician swatted away his attempts to fiddle with the wires and tubes. "I didn't have a heart attack on _purpose_, you know."

House ignored him. "Don't touch them," he said, his frown expertly hiding the flicker of concern behind his narrowed lids. "How's the pain?"

"Since when do you care?"

"Since my one and only friend nearly kicked the bucket and left me here alone." House began to occupy himself with tapping his cane on the floor, his voice no longer revealing any signs of amusement. "You really think I don't care?" he asked quietly.

Finally settled in, Wilson carefully eyed his friend. "When I donated my liver to Tucker," he said, "you told me that if I died, you'd be alone."

"You got a problem with my rephrasing?"

"You meant it then – it was a lie this time. But hey, everybody does it."

House seemed to be considering this, no longer drumming out a rhythm with his cane. Despite the negative subtext, Wilson almost found himself grateful for the turn in the discussion, for the familiarity of House's immediate understanding. Ironically, the woman whose name didn't need to be said was also the cause of their having gone so long without such a comforting connection in the first place.

At length, House glanced back at Wilson. "Is that why you didn't page me?"

The oncologist furrowed his brow, confused. "What?"

"When you realized you were having a heart attack," House clarified. "You didn't page _me_ – you paged Taub."

The memories seemed to flood back in an instant: the building pressure in his chest, the dizziness and nausea, the pain shooting up his arm. He could remember fumbling out of his seat and trying to stagger to the door, only realizing that it was too far away and reaching for his pager instead…

"I…House, it had nothing to do with you."

"Exactly."

"I'd been having symptoms for a while," Wilson wearily explained, "but I didn't put two and two together until the last minute. I'd just bumped into Taub in the hallway, and I guess he came to mind. There's nothing to look into or analyze here."

"You were having a heart attack and you were panicking, and instead of paging your best friend, you paged Taub," House countered calmly. "I didn't think the two of you would bounce back so soon, let alone with each other. Right on."

Wilson rolled his eyes, ignoring House's latest jab at his love life – or lack thereof. "I told you, I'd just seen him in the hallway. I figured he'd be able to get there sooner, that's all."

"Yeah…you're probably right, me being a cripple and all." House's sarcasm had yet to fade, but he seemed willing to drop the subject for now. "So," he continued casually, "why'd your heart fail at such a young and hearty age?"

Wilson groaned. "House, don't start. I'm too tired for this."

"Stop whining. You can go back to sleep after we've figured this out."

"A heart attack hardly qualifies as a mysterious illness."

"And eating the occasional French fry hardly qualifies you as heart attack material." House stood from his seat, opting for a new position by the window. "Was it the harpy?" he asked, gazing out at the view of the parking lot.

"Yes, of course," Wilson grumbled. "Sam showed up to magically clot an artery, and then she disappeared before you could catch her."

"What I _meant _was, I thought you were getting over her by now."

Wilson glanced up, surprised. "You think this was stress cardiomyopathy?"

"Otherwise known as broken heart syndrome." House turned back to him, his blue eyes grave. "_You_ tell _me_. Was it?"

"I…no. No, I don't think so."

"You seem sure of yourself."

"I'm not heartbroken…over Sam."

House, of course, knew better than to overlook Wilson's slight hesitation. "But you _are_ heartbroken over something else. What, too many puppies and cancer kids dying in the world?"

Wilson sighed. "This really isn't necessary, House."

"Yeah, sure. Let's just ignore it so you can have another heart attack before you're 50." House returned to the chair, plopping vehemently down. "Talk," he commanded.

"You hate talking."

"Which is precisely why you need to hurry up and spit it out so we can go back to _not _talking."

"Like we've been doing for the past few months?"

House frowned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"House, when's the last time we talked about anything?" Without even waiting for a response, Wilson pushed forward. "Ever since you've gotten together with Cuddy, it's like you and I don't exist anymore. You used to come to me about _everything_, and now you only come to me about _her._"

"You should be flattered that I still need your stupid advice," House retorted.

"Okay, fine. But what happened to bowling, and poker, and the Discovery Channel? Are you too good to even grab a beer after work, now?"

House shrugged. "Not too good, just too busy."

"Bullshit. You always used to make time for me – for us."

"I still do," House mumbled, averting his gaze, but Wilson shook his head.

"When I came to you about Sam, you pushed me away as soon as I got there. You couldn't even find it in yourself to forgo _one night_ with her for my sake. You wanna know the real reason why I didn't page you? It's because I wasn't even sure you'd fucking _come_."

The ringing in Wilson's ears felt just as it did in the moments before his collapse. He swallowed, taking the time to catch his breath through the nasal cannula as House continued to grip his cane and stare intently at the floor.

"I didn't really mean that," Wilson tried at last, but House cut him off.

"You don't know what I just went through," he snapped.

Guilt began to etch across Wilson's face. "I know I gave you a scare – "

"A _scare? _I'm surprised I'm not recovering from a heart attack of my own over here. Jesus, Wilson, I had to find out from _Taub_. From fucking _Taub_. Do you have any idea what that was like? To know that you trusted him over me?"

"No," Wilson admitted. "But I know what it's like to find out from a bunch of nurses that my best friend could have died of smallpox – _after_ the fact – and I know what it's like to find out from a bunch of nurses that he almost killed his girlfriend's dying mother – _after_ the fact – and I – "

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, I got into a relationship and fucked up our friendship," House shot back. "I can't even be happy for a _minute_ without screwing something else up, can I?"

"House, you know I _want_ you to be happy."

House sighed, but his few moments of pause seemed to calm his nerves. "If you want me to be happy," he said at length, "Cuddy's my ticket."

"I know," Wilson gently replied.

"I figured of all people, you'd understand."

"Of course I do, House. But…don't you want me to be happy, too?"

House looked up then, meeting Wilson's gaze, and Wilson found the strength to continue.

"You love each other; I get that. I think it's great, actually. You've been waiting a long time for this, and it's finally happened. But you left me behind in the process, and…"

"…And I broke your heart," House finished with a smirk. "You're such a sap, Wilson."

Wilson couldn't help but smile back. "You said it, not me."

House paused again, letting his expression revert back to its usual grimace. "I would've come, you know."

"I know," Wilson nodded apologetically. "I should have paged you. I'm sorry."

"I guess I deserved it," House shrugged. Standing from his seat, he nodded back at the oncologist. "Mystery solved, then. You should get some rest."

"Wait a minute. So did I really have a heart attack, or…?"

House rolled his eyes. "Duh."

"So it wasn't broken h…I mean, stress cardiomyopathy?"

"Have you already forgotten my super-human diagnostic skills?" House huffed. "I think I'm capable of telling the difference."

Wilson frowned. "But you said – "

"Turns out you're not the only manipulative bitch in this crazy friendship of ours."

Again, the comfort of their unsaid understanding washed over Wilson. With a knowing smile, he nodded. "Thank you."

House gave another shrug, tactfully changing the subject. "Like I said, you should get some rest."

"This heart attack thing _is _rather exhausting," Wilson commented mildly.

"So is hearing that your best friend just had one." House glanced at his watch. "Unfortunately, your little heart escapade doesn't change the fact that it's Valentine's Day. I've got dinner reservations at Le Chateau – think she'll approve?"

"I'm sure she'll love it."

"It's a holiday for morons," House grumbled. "The flowers, the gifts…it's a fucking nightmare. If it wasn't for the sex afterwards, it'd be a complete waste of time." Limping towards the doorway, he added, "When you get out of here, we're going bowling. Gotta stay active if you're gonna keep your heart in shape. And after I kick your ass, you're buying me dinner."

"But of course," Wilson agreed, hiding a smile.

His hand on the doorknob, House paused to glance over his shoulder. "Wilson."

"Yeah?"

"Happy Valentine's Day."

This time, Wilson didn't stop a smile from escaping across his face. "Happy Valentine's Day, House," he echoed, and as the door closed with an uncharacteristically quiet click, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


End file.
